


Wonderous Curses

by icarus_chained



Category: Vampire: The Masquerade, World of Darkness (Games)
Genre: Beauty - Freeform, Character Turned Into Vampire, Childe/Sire Bond(s), Clans, Consequences, Cruelty, Curses, Deformity, Despair, Disfiguration, Gen, Horror, Irony, Love, Ugliness, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-19
Updated: 2017-05-19
Packaged: 2018-11-02 10:09:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10942317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icarus_chained/pseuds/icarus_chained
Summary: A young Toreador reluctantly seeks information from a wicked old Nosferatu, and wins a story of a wonderous, torturous embrace. If 'win' is the word, anyway.





	Wonderous Curses

**Author's Note:**

> Right, so, first of all, I have **NO CANON KNOWLEDGE** whatsoever. I've just recently watched several playthroughs of 'Vampire the Masquerade: Bloodlines', you see, and I got really caught up in the Nosferatu lore in particular, so I had a bit a read around on wikis and things like that. I just really, really like the idea of the Nosferatu clan and the Nosferatu vs Toreador, beauty vs hideousness, all-monstrous-in-the-end thing. So. Um. Have a bit of a thing very loosely inspired by what I've managed to read so far, and forgive the complete lack of canon accuracy over here, yes? *grins sheepishly*

Now, what can I do for you? No, no. Don't tell me. Let me guess. I'm good at guessing, you know. Let's see. You look like one of those artistic types. A romantic at heart, hmm? A little lordling of the rose? Yes, I think so. You'll want a story, then. Why else would you come to old Owlglass? Yes, a story. Something with beauty in it, hmm? Something with tragedy. Something with innocence and loss and horror. And beauty, even still, even to the last. Beauty that sings even in the midst of horror. Beauty transcendent, that triumphs over all. That's what you'd like, isn't it. That's the sort of thing your kind tends to go for.

Oh, now, don't stomp away just yet. Was I mocking you? No I wasn't. Hush now. I may be a hideous old thing, but that doesn't mean I don't know what beauty is. It doesn't mean I mightn't want to see some piece of it triumph every now and then. Even a wicked old Sewer Rat can nurse some glimmer of aesthetic appreciation here or there.

Though, it must be said, my definition of the word might not be the same as yours. Still. Still. It might be close enough in places. Hmm. Yes. 

Yes, all right. I think I might have something to your tastes. It'll cost, mind you. I don't give away such stories for free. But you'll like it, I promise. You might even have heard of it already. Heard of _her_ already. Ever heard the name 'Corpse Flower'? No? Well. How about Miriam Ross? The Graveyard Chanteuse, the Angel of the Catacombs? Ringing any bells now? Heh, yes. I thought it might. Your sort don't tend to like her, do they? All that talent, that inhuman artistry, wasted on such a warped, hideous creature. It's an abomination, isn't it? It's such a crying, crying shame.

And yet! Yet. It's _compelling_ , isn't it? That's the worst of it. For all that, for all the shame of it, the waste, there's still something about her. There's something about that voice, that beautiful, ethereal voice, emerging from such a ruined husk. It gives her something, doesn't it? The _contrast_. Doesn't it add just that edge of irony, that wonderous tragedy? Doesn't it complete her? Doesn't it make her something else, something _more_?

Oh, I do pity you all sometimes. So ensnared by the vicious beauties of this world. It must be so painful for you. I've always thought that.

Again, not mocking! Hand on heart, your Honour! Honest as the night is long! Hehe. Hush now, hush. If you stomp away you'll never hear my story. You'll never hear how such a wonderous, hideous beauty as Miriam Ross came to embrace her unlife among us. You want to hear that, don't you? I promise, it's too fascinating not to tell. Too lovely. Too painful. Much like the lady herself.

She was beautiful once, you know. Enough to grace even your ranks, perhaps. As a mortal, she was ... beyond compare. Beautiful beyond words. And it's not what you think! I know people make much of our cruelty at times, our hatred for the beautiful. I won't deny there are those among us who go out of their way to prove them right. But that isn't what happened here. It wasn't cruelty on our part, not this time. Tragedy, yes, but not cruelty. Her Embrace was never intended as a punishment. 

You doubt, I see, but it's true. She compelled, even then. She was beautiful and wounded and sweet. No withered heart with even a shred of humanity remaining could have turned from her. And wicked though he was, wicked though he may yet be, her sire had humanity still. He was moved by her. He did not make his offer out of spite.

I run ahead of myself, though. You must understand her first, before you understand him. You must know what it was that he saw.

She was a beautiful young woman, by all accounts. A retiring one, mind you, a shy, soft-spoken creature, ill-suited for a life of rampant admiration. And here, before long, came the crux of her problem. She was not designed for beauty. Not in her heart, not in her soul. Not all of us are, you know. She found herself ill-equipped for a life of attraction, the attentions that it brought to her. She had little use for suitors. She had little use for people in general, in fact, though she was kind-hearted still, and would not stand to see another suffer. I wonder if you'd know what that's like? Perhaps you might. One never knows, after all. But, anyway. Here was her problem, in the end. The beginnings of it, at least. Miriam Ross was, quite simply, not designed to be beautiful. It gnawed at her, after a while. It hounded her. She sought respite from it. She sought some means to retreat from the world, and find some newer, quieter existence.

And she found it. She found it in a nunnery. These were different times, you understand, it was common solution then. A life of quiet work and contemplation. A vow of chastity and a habit worn to announce this vow to all and sundry. She had no real faith, of course, but it wasn't a lack that bothered her much. She found peace within the walls of that convent. She found a life that suited her at last, and for a good number of years she was finally content.

 _But_. But such things cannot last, can they? We know better. All of us, all we Kindred. Such islands of peace are built only to be broken again. 

And broken it was. She might have taken a vow, she might have worn a habit, but she was beautiful still, and only more obviously so in such serene, restrictive surroundings. There are those who given no credence to any vows, kine and kindred alike. We all know this. A young lord, rich and powerful and vicious at heart, laid eyes on our poor flower, and would not be denied her. We know the story from here, don't we? We all know what the poor dear was subjected to. Her peace was shattered, her heart broken, her contentment ruined. In the aftermath, she was disgraced, in the depths of despair. 

And it was here, of course, nowhere but here, that her sire found her.

Your heart aches, doesn't it? My poor little lordling. Your pity stirs. You can't help but be moved by the tragedy of it, can you? But be careful. Oh, be careful, my lovely. You don't know the half of it yet. She's not what you think, our lovely Gnawed Angel. Wait for it a moment yet.

She ran to the convent graveyard that night. For privacy, you see, to let the stillness and silence of death shield her in her despair. She ran for the graveyard with a knife in her hand. She found herself a good place, a quiet place, dark and secluded in the shadows of the old yew trees. She hurled herself down among the graves, scooted herself back into the darkest little alcove she could find. And then, when she was satisfied, she raised the knife. She pointed it inwards, towards herself, and gathered her courage and her despair.

"Wait!" said a voice. An evil, invisible voice, sourceless among the tombs. "Wait!" it said, "Wait, my dear. Is death your only solace? Surely what drives you cannot be that bad?"

And she startled, of course, what sane mortal wouldn't? She startled, and turned the knife in her hands, pointed it out among the gravestones. Seeking the voice, seeking the threat. Ready to fight it in her turn. Here, you see. Here is that other part of her nature. Here is that _ruling_ part of her nature. She was startled, yet she readied herself to fight.

"Who goes there?" she challenged. "What business is it of yours!" Soft-spoken only until riled. Isn't that always the way?

"A friend," said the voice, and meant it, I suppose. 'Fiend' and 'friend' are only a letter apart, after all. "Only a friend, my dear. Do pardon my invisibility. I am a haunt, you see, a creature of the graveyard. It would do you no good to see me, and you seem upset enough as it is."

She shuddered, oh, she did, but her hand was firm on her little knife. She had courage in her, that lovely flower, even so ruined as she was that night. Her chin came up. She had pride! She had courage and despair, and she had gathered them both already.

"I'm not upset," she said, in blatant defiance of all evidence. The voice did not challenge her, though. It would have been rude, really, and there was time enough for that before the end. It let her continue, let her carry on uncontested. And it was well that it did. So very much. Her nature revealed itself in her next words for all to see. "And death is not the solace I seek. I didn't come out here to die. I came here to free myself."

"... Oh?" asked the voice. Wary, now. All a-quiver with anticipation. "And what freedom can you buy with a knife, my dear? Freedom from _what_ , exactly?"

"Beauty," she said. "Beauty."

Ah! You don't like that, I see. Not at all, not at all, hmm? But you wouldn't. Of course not. This is why she is ours and not yours. This is why she was always meant to be a Sewer Rat. For one like her, our curse is a little lessened. For one like her, it can be borne with grace.

She meant to scar herself, that night. She meant to ruin the visage that brought such unwanted admiration towards her. If lust would follow her even into the sanctity of the convent walls, then she would cut out the cause of that lust, cut it free from the roots. She is a _survivor_ , you see. She has steel and nerve, and a coldness in spite of all her kindness. Her sire saw it then. He was enchanted by it, enthralled. But he was no young fool either, and he knew bravado was one thing, and reality another. Her statement was an enchantment, but if she were truly to survive his Embrace, it would have to be challenged.

So he did. He challenged her. He _tested_ her. And for one of us, one of mine, there is only one means to truly do so. 

"If you would be free of beauty," he said, soft and sweet as honeyed poison, "I can offer you another means. If you'd like, that is. I can offer you a condition, a state of being, more hideous than any other, and with benefits too. And risks, of course. There are always those. But you would be free of beauty. And you would not need your knife."

And she wasn't a fool either. She knew him for some manner of haunt, some manner of monster. An invisible voice in the graveyard, what else could he be but ghost or vampire, hmm? She knew. All along, she knew. But she had passed despair, and her temper was well and truly riled. 

"Show me, then," she said. "Show me your condition, sir. Let me see."

So he did. He dropped his cloak of shadows, stepped out from beneath the yew tree. He stepped out into the moonlight, and let it reveal his curse before her.

She didn't scream. You'll credit her that, at least. Her face blanched, her breath froze, her knife fell from nerveless fingers. But she didn't scream. She didn't flinch. She didn't flee. And after a moment, after some dozen of her hammered heartbeats, her sire thought he saw something emerging from the white sea of her fear. She drew herself up, gathered courage and despair, and he thought he saw a shadow of acknowledgement in her there.

"Well?" he asked, and it _was_ mocking, a little bit, but not so much as he had wanted. Not as much as he had planned. She stole his mockery from him, then and there. "Will it serve, do you think? I know of no more efficient destroyer of beauty, I do promise you."

"... What are you?" she asked, soft and shaking. And then, more quietly: "What would I be? If I joined you. What would I be?"

"Immortal," he answered softly. " _Damned_."

And there, in the midst of her courage and her despair, she agreed.

That's her grace, isn't it? That's her _tragedy_. It wasn't our cruelty. It wasn't a trick. She saw, witnessed the ravages of our curse, and she agreed. Because she'd borne another curse first. One your kind know better than any, my rosy lordling. Ours is a curse of ugliness, but hers, and yours, are ones of beauty. Which is worse, do you think? Which one shall damn us fastest? We can race for it, if you like. Perhaps we've been racing for it from the first.

And it doesn't stop there, does it? Not even this little story, this little morality tale of beauty and monstrosity and everything in between. She's quite the teaching tale, my lovely Corpse Flower. Because there's one more horror, isn't there. There's one more grace. And you know them too, my lovely, don't you? You've known them from the start. You saw her once, didn't you? That's why you're here. That's why you sought me out. You saw her once.

You heard her sing.

It wasn't an easy thing, her Embrace. Not even by our standards. It _ravaged_ her. You've seen that. It warped her and wrung her for days on end. Her sire almost despaired. Past a certain point he thought her not just damned but doomed. Not all of those we Embrace survive the ravages of our curse. He thought her lost, for an endless time. He thought her destroyed.

And she nearly was, too. A punishment, perhaps. Not ours, but fate's, offered in spite of it all. There is a certain poetry to her disfigurement, after all. She, who rejected her own god-given beauty, was forever deprived of enjoying another's. The Embrace took her eyes from her. You've seen it. It patterned over her face in empty flesh and rendered her blind. You'll never know how close her sire came to despair on seeing that. He had fallen for her courage, fallen for her acceptance and her defiance. Even so soon, he grieved her loss.

But she was made of sterner stuff than that. Even newborn, even then. She's a survivor to the core, that one, a seeker of life lived on her own terms, or unlife as the case may be. She clawed her way through the Embrace. She clawed her way to survival afterwards. Even blinded, crawling, disfigured, destroyed. She crawled her way past it. She feasted on rats, and clawed her way to standing afterwards. Lifted her chin in the face of her sire's dismay.

Oh, we do love her, you know. She's such a grand spit in the face of despair. She's such a perfect, vicious, _wonderful_ irony. You've got to love her. With all your heart, you've got to love her.

And you do. Even you. Even my poor, lovely lordling. You love her, don't you? Because you looked. Because you listened. Because you _heard_.

Such a lovely irony. The same Embrace that robbed her eyes, destroyed her face. The Embrace she'd intended to destroy her loveliness all along. That same Embrace was what gave her that voice. It warped and ravaged her vocal cords in turn, but instead of ruin it rendered beauty. Unearthly, inhuman, _monstrous_ beauty. The voice of an angel, in the ravaged face of a fiend. A glory from on high, nestled down in the pits of all despair. That _has_ to be some extra mockery, some divine or hellish whimsy. Can one curse really be so wonderously, _savagely_ cruel? But it can. Of course it can. We know that, one and all.

That is what it means to be Kindred, after all.

Let her go, little lordling. My lovely Corpse Flower, my childe. Let her go. She is the best and worst of your curse and mine, and she would break either of us without even trying. I am bound to love her. She is my childe and I adore her. But you ... Should you let her voice ensnare you, one or other of you must be destroyed by the end of it, and I cannot let it be her. You must understand that. Defy your curse, for your sake and ours. Ignore this wonderous horror. Call it the price of my story, if you need to. Call it the price of my tale. Let her be.

Because believe me, my boy. If you don't, _that_ price will be so much more than either of us can afford.

The price for beauty always is.


End file.
